


Our Ghost

by DarthNickels



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Folklore, Gen, Ghost Stories, Silly ballet rats, Spying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Pre-canon, slightly AU] The Opera Ghost did, in fact, exist. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, (though none of them could get their story straight as to his origins) nor was he a fabrication of the absurd and impressionable ladies of the ballet (though they caused him no end of frustration with their tales). Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, though that's the one possibility no one expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Ghost

The story of the Opera Ghost began for these reasons:

  1.        Sometimes, Erik is clumsy



Erik knows how not to be seen; after all, he is the greatest of illusionists. He was born a creature of the shadows and wraps himself in them with ease.

But sometimes he is thinking of music and not his footing; he slips and the crash echoes through the flies and the stage hands mutter fearfully.

Or he becomes absorbed in the silly talk of the corps and moves just a hair too slowly when one girl feels his gaze and turns.

“There was a man in the box! I saw him! No, he was _there_!” the shrill cry tore through the grand auditorium.

Erik was pressed against the wall of the box, still as marble (though who would make a statue of _him_ , he couldn’t say). 

“Don’t be silly, Genevieve! There’s no one there!”

“Then it was the Ghost!” 

“If there is a ghost watching the ballet it was because your posture is so poor it wakes the dead!” Harsh, but not inaccurate. “No get back to it or you’ll have something more than a ghost to worry about!”  

  1.        Sometimes, Erik is petty  



The great Spanish diva had talent, it was true, but she did not have the strength of heart that made for a true _genius_. She was a great lover of the vulgar world, of fine things and glittering company, and showed no interest in reaching the divine plane of pure art. In truth she was no different from the rest of the company, and Erik could hardly begrudge her for loving the things he sometimes admitted to being curious about, but when he caught her trying to muscle out some of the more promising competition (and compromising the integrity of his opera house) he put his foot down.

…And also liberated a few sandbags from their moorings. It was unsubtle, almost crude, but Erik had seen some of the hands taking bets on whether an actor would wander into a flying backdrop and thought it might be amusing to tip the scales.

More importantly, there had to be _order_ in his house, for the sake of the music. Who was more suited to enforce it than Erik, who saw everything and could judge accordingly?

Nearby, one of the young boys of the chorus giggled at Carlotta’s misfortune. His friend punched him in the arm, glancing around warily.

“Stop that! If you invite the Ghosts’ mischief you’ll suffer from it next!” he hissed.  

  1.        Sometimes, Erik is foolish



There was a new girl in the corps de ballet. Her named was Annette and she was _annoying_. Her weeping and wailing permeated the thick stone walls and floors of the opera house, and there was nowhere Erik could go to find relief from the hideous sound. Once again, Erik’s intervention was required, but before he could locate the sound he happened upon some of the older girls crowing over their prize- a stolen doll—and he put the pieces together quickly.

Erik is, after all, a genius.  

But somehow, being a genius did not prevent him from acting out in a fit of pique. He made a hideous noise from within his hidden passage, like the cry of the mournful dead (an apt description of himself, perhaps) and the girls ran, screaming for their lives. He emerged into the hallway and watched them go, feeling very smug. Then he looked down and saw the object of contention, lying in a limp heap. He did not feel like a genius when he picked it up, a scrap of calico dress pinched between his thumb and forefinger, held at arms’ length. It hardly seemed like something to cry over.

Erik was so annoyed by the whole ordeal that he forgot to harness the power of that superhuman brain of his and, once he located the source of his misery, simply dropped the offending toy from the rafters, so it landed with a soft thud before the weeping Annette. She gasped, her head snapping up as she searched the rafters for any sign of her benefactor.

“The ghost!” she whispered, and her face went white as a sheet. Erik scowled at that—an irrational scowl, because she wasn’t afraid of _him_ , exactly, but he had come to this opera house to _escape_ that fearful gaze! How dare she--

“Monsieur!” She suddenly cried out, cutting through his seething.  She hugged her doll close to her chest. “Thank you! Thank you, Monsieur Ghost!”

Erik couldn’t explain the feeling that washed over him, making him feel like a living person instead of a dead one. Annette scampered away but the feeling remained, like a burning lamp in his dark heart.

Perhaps he would not return to the cellars of the Opera just yet.

* * *

 

Weeks later, Erik was still reaping the fruit of his foolishness.

“Has one of you taken my powder puff?” Victoire, a very serious young member of the corps asked, hands on her hips.

“Not me! Not me!” the other girls chorus.

“It must have been the Ghost,” piped up one voice. “He’s such a nuisance!” The other girls were inclined to agree.

“That’s not true!” Annette cut in, severely. “Monsieur Ghost is very kind, and is happy to help _nice_ girls find their lost things!”

The other girls laughed and jeered—“A nice ghost, indeed! Whoever heard of such a thing?” Victoire herself was not about to let Annette’s jab go unanswered.

“As if a silly little child like you knew anything about ghosts!” she said, tossing her curls. “ _Monsieur Ghost_ should do us all a favor and put a stop to your _crying_!”

Though that is, in fact, what Erik had set out to do days earlier, he found himself insulted by Victoire’s allegation. This was _his_ Opera House, and as its resident ghost he would punish those whom he saw fit.

 Once again, Erik’s mischievous impulse won out over good sense. He eased a brick out from behind the girl’s dresser—which he knew very well housed the missing puff- and pushed on the back of the drawer, slowly.

There was very little pride to be had in making a room full of young girls scream, but again Erik felt smug as their shrieks let him know his trick worked. He eased the stone back in before he could be discovered, but heard Annette triumphantly calling out “and _there_ it is! Thank you, Monsieur Ghost!”

And then, unbelievably, a quieter, humbled voice: “Th-thank you, Monsieur Ghost…”

Erik did _not_ think he was supposed to have this feeling. Perhaps God sent these emotions to another man, a better man, and on the way from heaven they were drawn to Erik as a helpless vessel is drawn to a maelstrom. It sat in his breastbone like a jewel-toned bird, and sang a single sweet note that utterly captured his good sense.

 For a moment, he thought about bricking over the windows and doors of the Opera, sealing this moment forever in time, and keeping the players bound to his stage for all eternity. Maybe he could trap them, like butterflies beneath a glass slide, so he could savor his treasure to his leisure. He discarded the idea, largely because it was infeasible, but also because the idea of the sad little ballerinas, pale and sickly in perpetual lamplight, was a thought he detested.

No, he thought, stalking through his secret corridors, he would have to be more clever than brick and mortar to keep his house full of awed whispers.

* * *

 

He was starting to realize things were out of hand when he stumbled across an unusual scene during his patrols. A single candle, long since melted to a stub, sat in a disused corner of the chorus dressing rooms. Next to it was a neatly folded piece of paper and a paltry handful of sous.

Erik, the master spy he was, had little compunction about other people’s privacy and unfolded the note. It was a letter—coincidentally, addressed to him:

                                Monsieur Ghost,

                Please put a curse on Paul for breaking my heart.

                                Yours, Julie

Erik frowned. He very much doubted Julie, a dedicated seamstress, was or would ever consent to being ‘his’—despite what she had so foolishly pledged in her altogether silly letter.  He did know Paul, a scoundrel and a lackluster voice at best. That was not a character he would miss from his house…

Erik turned on his heel, then stopped. The letter sat in his hand, an unassuming dingy cream color. He couldn’t remember the last time he received _personal_ correspondence, much less a gift. The message was unwanted and the gift was more like payment for supernatural services not yet rendered, and yet…for all his crimes, the idea of leaving the coins untouched and the letter unanswered left him unsettled. A ghost could afford to be _rude_. But…

Perhaps Erik’s madness had grown without him realizing it, or his musical block had grown so great he was desperate for _any_ kind of amusement. He turned the letter over in his long, bony hands, frowning. He knew every crack and cranny of the Opera House, knew all of its secrets and hidden treasures. The empty building was his alone. How had it become so foreign and strange once peopled?

Later, Julie was unrolling a rich bolt of rich silk, newly arrived in the workshop, when she found a strange note tucked inside. The letters were disjointed and shaky, but legible:

                                Madmoiselle,

               I am unable to curse M. Paul any further than God already did by giving him the voice of a goat.

                               Regretfully,

                                M. Ghost

In a happy accident, Paul left the Opera some weeks later, looking very pale and spouting the most absurd superstitious nonsense.

* * *

 

Erik was furious with himself. This was a disaster—one he invited in the front door himself. He had never before come as close to discovery as he did these days, with everyone from the ballet rats to the great diva herself scouring the place. Corners were illuminated, curtains thrown aside, and every flash of movement met with scrutiny by the denizens of his house. Of course, they were never even _close_ to catching the trap-door lover—but his movements were curtailed and he could do nothing but fume in his house beneath the lake until it all blew over. Even worse, it was _impossible_ to keep himself productive during his exile- he could go no further on his magnum opus, not when every piece of music he wrote sounded like children’s prattle and giggles in his ear.

Erik set his fingers to the keyboard, but once again the music that emerged was more suited to dancing sylphs than Don Juan. He planted his fist against the keys, and the pipe organ groaned discordantly.

“My friend, why did you stop?” asked a voice from somewhere in his living room. Erik slammed his mask onto his face just in time for a certain _nosy_ daroga to stick his head in the door.

“That was lovely music. Are you finally finished with your great and terrible masterpiece? Will you write something _nice_ now?”

“Go away!” Erik snapped. “I have no desire to see any uninvited guests today!”

“But I have a great desire to see you, my friend,” the Persian replied evenly. “There’s some very peculiar gossip circling the foyer these days.”

Erik didn’t answer. He played the same melody he’d been toying with, but it made him think of bright green leaves and not his own foul mood. He cut the tune short once again.

“They say,” the Persian went on, “that there is a _phantom_ haunting the Palais Garnier.”

“I wasn’t aware that you took the word of ballet rats and a superstitious old concierge so highly, Daroga! What will they have you believing next, I wonder?”  

“Erik!” he half-shouted, his playful good humor gone. “Listen to me! If you are found out you will be taken to prison—or _worse-_ \- and I will do nothing to help you, because you will deserve it.”

“You are _boring_ me. Go away! Come back when you have something interesting to say, instead of nattering at me like an old maid!”

“Is that why you’re doing this- toying with these people? Because you are _bored_?”

“Why does one do anything?” Erik asked, but it had been a long time since the Daroga’s last visit and his indifference rang false. There was a protracted silence between them, and then—

“The rats say the ghost grants wishes. Tell me Erik, just what are you planning on doing with those girls—?”

“How dare you!” Erik stood sharply, upending his bench. “You barge into my house and hurl baseless accusations at me? I have half a mind to forget our friendship, as you seem to have done!”

“Erik,” the Persian implored, “you swore you would behave- that your old tricks would stay in the past, and you would cause no more trouble!”

“Erik has caused no trouble! Erik has done nothing but keep his house _in order_ , Daroga! I don’t expect you to understand, but the creation of art is a delicate thing, you tin-eared fool!” Erik shouted back. Beneath his mask, there were two spots of color on his deathly cheekbones. “Now get out of my house, and do not return until you learn some _manners_!”

The Persian knew it was better not to test the Butcher of Mazenderan when he was in a mood like this. He turned on his heel, back to the shore of the lake, but paused.

“My friend,” he said, softly. “I don’t know what you’re playing at….but the world above is not a place for you.”  

“Erik knows that better than anyone, _friend_ ,” he shot back, icily.  “Erik would like to be left _alone_ now! Erik only wants to be alone!”

The Persian had the gall to give him one last sad look before setting off into the gloom, on the path to the mid-afternoon sunshine.

The next time he saw the former chief of police, he would kill him, Erik resolved. He’d hold his face just under the surface of the lake and watch the dark water fill his chest with ice. It would be a fit punishment, returning to the Daroga what Erik was feeling now.

_Now_ the dark fury of Don Juan was returned to him, but he didn’t right his bench and return to his organ. Instead he picked up his violin, and the harsh, wailing strains followed the Daroga across the lake, all the way to the Rue Scribe door.

* * *

 

Of course, the Daroga was _right_. Erik was not a daylight creature, or even a particularly social one. Traveling outside, even wearing his false nose, made his heart hammer in his chest and his thoughts race wildly. There was too much distance between the rest of humanity and himself. He thought he house on the lake, far beneath the surface world, would be the perfect solution. Here he could never see another face (especially not his own, ha ha!) and spend the rest of his days wrapped in the sublime ecstasy of his art.

But again and again he found himself creeping back into the Opera proper, like a thief in the night.

When Erik was a child he’d done a fair amount of spying—and an even greater amount of daydreaming, imaging himself taking part in a game of ball, or going to church, or any number of activities he managed to glimpse. As he grew older it became clear he would never understand that world just by viewing, and taking part was a hopeless dream, and he retreated back into his music. For a long, long time, music was enough.

The idea that this was no longer the case frightened him.

After all, he wasn’t a child now. He had no business spying on these people and their petty little lives. There was no reason for him to forgo the call of the muse and instead watch a crew of carpenters bring Juliette’s tower into being, laughing and cursing in turns. There was no great art in two chorus girls sneaking away from rehearsal to pet the noses of every horse in the opera’s stables.  There was certainly nothing of value in the bickering between the diva and her managers. And yet—

The idea of walking among him, the fantasy of _being_ one of them, filled him with a kind of superhuman greed. In the private world of his mind, carpenters build sets from _his_ plans, clothes were sewn from _his_ drawings, the chorus sang _his_ words and the orchestra followed _his_ baton. He walked magnanimously among his players, praising and scolding them in turn, his words met by a sea of adoring faces.

Erik gave a bitter bark of laughter. It was an idea too silly for _children_ to contemplate. He didn’t care for that fantasy one whit--!

But his traitorous mind provided him with the image of a Sunday afternoon, a day of rest after a harried week before the start of the season. There was afternoon sunlight filtering between the trees, and a warm arm wrapped around his—he’d never done it before but he could _feel_ it, the sun on his face and the body next to his, as though he had experienced rather than merely _witnessed_ the charming scene—

The image collapsed into mist, and something dark wormed its way into Erik’s heart.

_It should be mine_.

Erik thought the question of God’s existence was a pointless one—he would never worship a deity that could make something as wretched as him. For Erik, all fruit of this world was forbidden, and he crawled through the darkness like a snake—only able to covet from afar.

Maybe instead of trapping his specimens in amber he would smother them with gas, reducing the population of his kingdom to lifeless dolls. Or maybe he’d burn this place to the ground, cleanse the world of every trace of himself and take everything he loved with him into Hell—

He was abruptly hauled up from that dark place by two voices—there was Annette, looking very cocksure for a girl who just weeks ago had wailed for her lost dolly.

“Ah! Genevieve!” She said, slapping the girl’s hand away. “No more pastries!”

“But there’s one left- we can split it!”

“No! That’s for the ghost!”

Genevieve made a noise of exasperation. “You’re just going to waste a whole pastry!”

“You _saw_ him! Are you saying you don’t believe what you saw?”

“Of course I do! The ghost is real, but he doesn’t eat _sweets_! That would be absurd!” Genevieve shot back, indignantly. “You’ll just get rats in our apartments!”

“I won’t!”

“You will! You don’t know the first thing about ghosts!” 

“I do so! Monsieur Ghost takes payment for wishes, just like a tomte! He’s probably not even a ghost, more like- how do you say it?” she paused, thoughtfully. “A fairy.”

“Ridiculous! I _saw_ him! He’s  a _man_ , the a ghost of a man in evening dress—Michel told me he’s a former patron who threw himself off the roof of the Opera in a fit of despair!”

“Now _that’s_ ridiculous!”

The two girls wandered away, squabbling. Erik wondered if he had gone completely mad, or if his madness had simply been eclipsed by the collective lunacy of the corps. Those girls would believe _anything_. They were utterly bereft of good sense. Only in a place such as this could the silly notions of little girls be spoken of as fact.

_If anything, I am a revenant_ , he thought, swept up in the riptide of a girl’s imagination. _Or perhaps a gargoyle, with a face like this_ …

Erik paused at that. He thought of horrible, grimacing statues outside churches—never allowed in, but still afforded their place at the house of God. He thought of fierce stone idols, their hideousness worn away over time by the touch of a thousand hands and a thousand prayers. He thought of offerings, sacrifices, and a handful of sous.

Later, Erik nibbled delicately on a delightfully rustic apple turnover. It was true he was a dead thing; his entire existence was an affront to the natural order. He had no business traveling _among_ the living.

But perhaps the rules could be bent, and he could still watch _over_ them.

* * *

 

Stories flew thick and fast throughout the Opera.

There was the case of Lucien, whose violin was stolen, only to reappear scant hours later with a new set of strings, perfectly tuned. He tore through the orchestra, but no one would admit to being the culprit. Later, a small note fell out of the body of the instrument, written in crabbed red letters:

                            Dressing your lady in rags is disgraceful behavior. Next time I shall take her.

`Kobolds, they whispered. Elf-folk. Peter, an English flautist, posited that there was an entire family of gnomes living in the recesses of the opera—which was _not_ a superstitious thing to believe, because the tiny men were real, unlike spirits. He claimed to have seen a gnome’s skeleton, and the argument between the musicians went on for days until Beringer the conductor tripped over a saucer of milk left as bait and forbade any more discussion of the matter.

Others argued the ghost was in fact, a ghost, but no one could decide on his origins. “Michel is wrong,” Simon the assistant stage manager argued. “The ghost is older than the Opera. He’s returned because the construction scattered his bones and he can’t get back into Heaven.”

The fly-men disagreed. The ghost was one of them, a tragic figure who fell from the flies due to the carelessness of his fellows. No, the carpenters shot back, he was one of _them_ , crushed beneath a collapsed piece of scenery. Absolutely not! The ghost was a scene-changer, trampled by a mad horse during a performance of _Le prophète_.

“Let this be a lesson to you”, each craftsman admonished his apprentice after telling his version.  

The musicians wanted to point out that the ghosts’ proficiency with violins would indicate he was _obviously_ one of theirs, except he wasn’t a ghost at all but a sprite,  _obviously_ , but their conductor loomed ominously behind them and they held their tongues.

Sara, one of the lesser members of the chorus, refuted all these claims.

“The ghost was a tenor,” she whispered, during rehearsal. “He was murdered by a jealous rival before his debut.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well—I don’t know about the _rival_ , but—“

“Oh, that’s nonsense, you’re making this all up!”

“No I’m not!” she shot back hotly, and they were all shushed fiercely by the director.

“It’s all true,” she started again, once Carlotta had graciously taken the attention away from those off-stage once again. “The ghost is a singer.”

“You’re just telling stories…”

“No! It’s true! Last week I was at the Opera, late into the night—never you mind what I was doing! Anyway, I was in my dressing room, and I heard the most beautiful music- it was a man’s voice, with some kind of strange accompaniment--”

“Oh, _ridiculous_ , you just heard Carolous Fonta practicing after hours and got carried away--”

“I did not! There was no mistaking this voice for anyone—it was a sound beyond the realm of mortal ability! I ran from my dressing room to see who it was that could make such a beautiful sound, but there was no one there! There was no one there, and yet the music filled my ears in a way that was both terrible and sublime- and then it was gone!”

The ballet rats, who had been listening intently, did their best to muffle their shrieks of terror and delight. The director shot them a glare, but Carlotta (great diva that she was) still commanded his full attention.

“Alright, say you did hear a ghostly voice,” one of the stage hands started, suspiciously. “What’s this about a murder?”

Sara hesitated for a moment, glancing upwards into the darkness of the flies.

“Nobody who died as God intended could sing so sadly,” she answered, quietly. 

* * *

 

Erik thought it was only natural that he should be compensated for his work keeping the company in top form. Sadly, it seemed Poligny and Debienne deeply disagreed. They resented his addendums to the manager’s handbook, and scoffed at his modest request for a salary.  It was unfortunate that he had to go to such unpleasant lengths to make his case, but then, it wasn’t as if a ghost could strike for his wages.

The upside was the acquisition of his delightful box attendant, the venerable Madame Giry. She came to his box one day, with red-rimmed eyes and sniffling pitifully. She still wore a widow’s black, and Erik seemed to remember it was her husband who had died some years ago.

He took a chance.

“Madame Jules,” he murmured, so his voice seemed to whisper right in her ear. “What troubles you?”

She started, clasping a hand to her mouth and just barely muffling a shriek. Her eyes darted fearfully, but naturally she saw no one.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, with a cheer that sounded deeply unnatural to his own ears, “I’m the Opera Ghost!”

Giry was an instant believer. Her eyes grew wide. “The ghost!” she whispered, awed.

Erik decided to lie. This was a kind lie, one that even the Daroga couldn’t chide him for.

“Your husband is in heaven with God, Madame. He misses you very dearly, but knows one day you will be reunited before the gates of Saint Peter!”

To his dismay, Giry’s tears came thicker and faster than ever before. He had been the cause for many, _many_ tears over his life, beginning with his own mother and stretching over the course of who-knows-how- many victims. Never before had anyone cried happily before him. He was glad for the hollow column that kept him from view, the intensity of this woman’s gratitude was greater than he had anticipated.

“Oh, monsieur,” she snuffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “You are so kind…”

He had wildly miscalculated. ‘Kind’ was the wrong word entirely. This was the most outrageous trick he had ever pulled, by far.

“Can I—is there something I can get for you, Monsieur?”

Well, Erik had already lied once. He may as well continue pretending. The image of the Sunday boulevard filled his head. “Tonight, before the performance, could you bring me a footstool?”

“For a lady guest? It would be my pleasure!”

Erik marveled at how gullible the denizens of his kingdom were, and even felt somewhat guilty for tricking them. Never in his _life_ had he felt guilty for an illusion. But here she was, dark eyes trusting, never once doubting a creature such as him had a lady guest to visit the Opera with.

“Thank you. That is all I will require, Madame Jules.”

The concierge bowed deeply before exiting the box. Erik resolved to go the bank before the performance- he was in need of a few crisp franc notes to tip with.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a half a mind to make this fully AU, but I haven't written for this fandom in 8 years (oh my god!) and I'm not sure what I'm doing.


End file.
